


6 Jobs Monroe Didn't Last a Day At... and 1 He Did

by KitsJay



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Errant Comment Fic, M/M, so hey guess what I was the Christmas anon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 09:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17805443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitsJay/pseuds/KitsJay
Summary: 6 jobs Monroe didn't last a day at, and the one he finally did.





	6 Jobs Monroe Didn't Last a Day At... and 1 He Did

**Author's Note:**

> Originally filled at Grimm kinkmeme.

_Butcher_

"Hi, I'm here for the--" Monroe paused. There was an overweight man sharpening a cleaver behind the counter, blood spattered all over his grungy white apron. He could smell the blood and tissue in the air, like the whiff of a perfume.

"You're the new hire, right?"

"Uh," Monroe hesitated. "Sorry, no. Must have gotten the wrong address."

It was the first job that he hadn't even lasted a minute at. He put a giant X over the classified ad in black pen, then scribbled it out for good measure.

Note to self: No more working at food places.

_Gift-Wrapper_

"No."

"Monroe--can I call you Eddie?" his manager, a petite woman who managed to stuff herself into a dress suit that was two sizes too small and a truly alarming plum color, put a maternal hand on his shoulder.

"Just Monroe."

"Eddie," the woman continued trilling in her shrill voice, "it's just for the season, you see--"

"I'm not wearing a Christmas hat. I'll wrap gifts, but," He glared at the offending article, lying innocently on the desk, as if it were unaware of what it was doing. "I'm not wearing that."

The woman's hands dug in, her acrylic nails as sharp as claws. Her smile stayed firmly in place. "Please, for me?"

"For you," he managed, trying to shrink away from her surprisingly strong grip. "Of course, anything, Margie."

She patted him on the shoulder.

 

"What--how can you--argh! You can't buy this," Monroe told the customer.

The man looked confused. "Um, I'm sorry? I just need to get it gift-wrapped for my wife..."

"No. Go out and buy something in an ordinary shaped box. This cannot be wrapped."

The customer, looking confused, wandered off.

Margie, like some demonic pop-up book, appeared behind him, a tense smile on her face.

"Eddie, may I have a word?"

Which is how he found himself out on the street--not wearing that damn Santa hat anymore, thank goodness--and crossing off yet another job off.

_Tech Support_

Monroe had said, "Have you tried turning it off and on again" so many times that he was considering just recording his voice saying that and playing it. He probably would have given it a shot, had it not been for the faintly threatening presence of his boss's orientation speech, which had cheerfully ended on the note, "And remember, we monitor all your calls!"

He looked at the script on his screen, a handy flow chart of, "If issue is still not resolved, please go to step 3", none of which had a step that included, "Bang your head against the desk."

Over the phone, he could hear the customer still cussing loudly, his tinny voice ringing out, "These stupid things never work! You need to let someone know--" Right, because he personally knew the software programmer. He'd get right on that.

"Sir, I'm happy to help," lies, blatant, horrible lying, "if you could just calm down--"

"Don't tell _me_ to calm down! If you made these things right the first time--"

He would rather take being trapped in a Valentine's Day store while someone waved a red cape around than this; it would probably incite him to less rage.

"Sir, have you considered the possibility that you're a moron?"

There was a pause.

"Excuse me?"

"The fault, sir, probably lies within yourself, not the computer."

Well, hell, if he was going to get himself fired, he might as well do it right, he thought philosophically. Of course, knowing literature and fine arts was probably what got him into this whole "jobless" situation in the first place, so maybe not.

He could see his manager, a diminutive man with an ego twice his size, glasses pushed up on his nose, and paisley tie, hurrying toward him.

"Have a nice day, sir," he said, clicking the button on the screen that ended the call.

Before his manager could even squeak, he stood and glowered at him from his full, 6'4", in a white button-up shirt and a plain tie.

"Consider that my informal resignation," he said, striding between the cubicles of workers who looked torn between clapping and hiding.

His classified ad gained another big black X on it.

_Bus Driver_

If he heard that annoying, and frankly off-color, version of "We Will Rock You" one more time, he was going to turn the wheel off the side of a bridge.

"Knock it off!" he shouted, fighting to be heard over the loud squeals of children, the ones who thought they were being clever and oh-so-naughty for saying "dammithell!", the ones who were just _loud_ and no wonder his coworker had given him that look when he said he didn't have ear plugs, the ones who were busy using their gel pens to graffiti the green plastic backs of the seats.

He made another neighborhood stop, wistfully watching the child go while thinking, "One more down," as she was led away, chattering excitedly to her mother. The noise had died down in the back and he only had a second of relaxation before his suspicions were raised. He heard a kid crying.

"What's going on?" he said, putting the vehicle in park and standing up to check. All the kids were staring at one little boy, who had tears and snot running down his face. His jacket sleeve had a glistening trail of mucous on it and Monroe felt his eye twitch.

He gave warning glares to the others, kneeling down in front of the little boy.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't feel good," the kid sobbed out.

"That's it?" Monroe said loudly, then panicked when the kid started crying harder. "No, no, that's--please don't do that, you're going to make yourself--"

And sure enough, the kid's hiccoughing sobs turned into the unmistakeable sound of retching. Even with his eyes squeezed shut, he could smell the acrid scent of bile all over his shirt. The kid was still crying.

Standing with all the dignity he could muster, as all the kids let out an, "Ewww, gross!", he made it to the front of the bus and calmly continued on his route.

 

"So how'd it go?" his new boss smiled brightly.

He stared at her mutely, the remains of what looked like macaroni surprise and chocolate milk in vomit form still glistening wetly on his shirtfront.

"Great," he said. "Awesome. I'm quitting."

He added another note to his lists: _NOTHING INVOLVING CHILDREN._

_Pound Worker_

"I just love animals, don't you?" the woman said, cooing over a dog who looked like it would rather be sent to the Big Farm Up in the Sky than be cuddled by the manager. Monroe shot it an empathetic look, as if to say, _Yeah, man. I know._

"Oh, love 'em, just love 'em!" he said as happily as he could manage. He silently added, 'Especially marinated and seared over an open flame.'

His new manager beamed at him and showed him to a white room with a giant sink to one end. "This will be where you're working."

"Cozy," he said, glancing around. "What exactly will I be doing?"

"Oh, silly," she said, lightly slapping his arm. "You'll be washing the cats!"

"... Silly me," Monroe managed.

The manager bustled off and another beleaguered coworker walked in, toting a cat carrier full of twenty-one pounds of bad news, hissing and yowling at the world.

"This is Mr. Fluffernutter III," the coworker said. At Monroe's look, she shrugged helplessly. "I didn't name her."

"Let me guess," Monroe said. He pointed a finger to where the manager had disappeared and his fellow employee made a helpless gesture. Monroe nodded solemnly. "Say no more."

"You fill up the water to this line with warm, but not hot, water. There's some shampoo and flea dip over there. Try not to let him get near your face."

That sounded comforting.

He waited until she left before hunkering down before the cage and staring at the two glowing eyes staring at him spitefully behind bars.

"Listen, Mr. Fluffernutter, I don't like cats, and I know you probably don't like me, but I've already gone through nearly every single ad in today's paper, so we're going to do this, and you're going to do it quietly."

The dogs had immediately listened, cowed by the presence of something clearly alpha and more feral than they were; cats, predictably, ignored him.

 

Fifteen stitches later, two gallons of sudsy water poured onto the floor, and one very, very angry cat later, Monroe limped into the manager's office.

"I--"

"Are no longer working here!" the woman interrupted him. She held up the devil spawn. They stared at each other, old foes acknowledging a draw. "Look at poor Mr. Fluffernutter III! You scared him half to death!"

" _I_ scared him? The only thing that could scare a cat is the possibility they aren't the center of the universe!"

With that, Monroe passed the rows of cages and found himself back on the street, staring morosely at the paper. He wasn't kidding about the classifieds. He was starting to lose the ability to tell which was ink from the paper and which was the ink from jobs he had tried already and scratched off.

_Security Guard_

Across the food court was the same store where he had spent his abbreviated time as a gift-wrapper. It was kind of nice to be able to watch it from far away, watching as his short-term colleagues nodded politely and smiled through clenched teeth at customers who loudly demanded the impossible.

"You look happy," his boss commented.

Monroe shrugged, "Just my shadenfreude acting up."

His boss stared vacantly at him through his beady eyes, and Monroe sighed. "Nothing. Just an old medical condition."

"I thought you said you were in perfect health?" his boss asked suspiciously.

"I am. Really. What do you need me to do?"

His new boss eyed him for a moment longer before gesturing gruffly to the Christmas display. "We need you to keep an eye on that."

"For what?" he said, glancing over the monstrous display. "Outrageous counts of tackiness?"

"Keep your sarcasm to yourself and watch to make sure there aren't any fights."

Monroe eyed the line of children, clutching the pants of their parents, pointing excitedly to toys coincidentally displayed prominently in the windows of the nearby shops, and accidentally met the vacant, faintly pleading gaze of the mall Santa, currently sporting a wet stain on the front of his pants and holding out a child who was sobbing.

Their eyes locked. It was like staring into the abyss.

He turned to his boss, "Yeah, I'm going to have to say no. I'll have the uniform cleaned."

The classified ad was starting to leak ink onto his palms, it had so many black marks on it. He stared dismally. There had to be a job out there that didn't require a full-frontal lobotomy or the stink of desperation, right?

_Bookstore_

The bookstore was actually pleasant. It was quiet, mostly older adults, the youngest probably in their twenties, sipping at coffee and browsing quietly through the musty shelves. The speakers were piping in soft, soothing Sinatra songs.

The woman who had interviewed him had been slightly on the plump side, with a sweet smile and twinkling blue eyes, dark hair pulled back to reveal her smooth face.

There had to be something wrong.

His shoulders felt tense from constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, glancing around, waiting for the inevitable. After two hours of quietly shelving books back into their proper place, he had almost started to calm down, almost let himself believe that this could be a decent job.

Of course, that was kind of stupid of him.

"Fire!" a woman cried, running through the stores. "There's a fire in the backroom!"

Before he could properly gather his thoughts, the sprinkler system came on and coated the screaming, panicking customers in water. The backroom was indeed on fire, judging by the smell of burning paper and the clouds of grey smoke wafting out in great billows toward the main room. He managed to point two of the customers toward an exit before leaving himself, joining the crowd of people outside on the sidewalk as they stared at the building.

The fire department showed and stared at the place.

"Excuse me," Monroe interrupted one yellow-clad man's reverie. "I know I haven't gone through the same training and all, but aren't fire fighters supposed to, you know, _stop_ fires?"

The man was silent for a long moment, never glancing away from the flames. "Yup."

Monroe stared at him, turned to watch the fire, then returned to stare at the man. His position hadn't changed. "So are you going to get on that anytime soon?"

"Nope."

He was starting to sense a pattern. He asked with some irritation, "May I ask why?"

"These old buildings might as well have been made out of kindling and soaked in gasoline. It'll burn itself out before it reaches the other building. There's no point in sending my boys in there for a lost cause."

Monroe joined him in staring at the flames as they climbed up the building. A timber shifted and brought in the roof. He could hear the sweet lady he interviewed with crying softly.

"I knew it," he sighed, walking away from the scene. "I just knew it."

He pulled out the classifieds again.

_+1 Full-Time Grimm Keeper and Watchmaker Needed_

Monroe was trudging out of his latest job--how was he to know that his manager was a die-hard Trailblazers fan? Anyone could have missed the giant posters on the office walls and the tiny pennant waving from his computer background.

He was about to give up, call it a day, and curl up at home when a man dropped his pocket-watch on the ground. Its cover broke off, sending screws and gears scattered across the sidewalk. He debated walking over it, but his better side--the one he had carefully cultivated, despite days like today--won over, and he bent to pick the pieces up.

"Thanks, but I think it's a goner," the man said ruefully. He sighed heavily. "My great-grandfather's and I break it."

"It just needs some minor repairs," Monroe said, eyeing the pieces. He pulled out his glasses and bent to look over it, pushing this gear into place and using his eyeglass repair kit screwdriver to carefully push the last piece in. The second hand began moving, ticking away as if it had never met an almost untimely death against concrete. He handed it back to the man. "Just get the glass repaired and polish it up, be good as new."

The man stared at it before grabbing Monroe's hand and shaking it profusely. "Thank you so much, young man."

"Really, it was nothing," Monroe fought to extricate his hand from the man's surprisingly strong grip. "Don't mention it."

"No, no, please," the man fumbled in his pockets before pulling out a bent business card. "Please take this. I'm an antiques dealer. If you ever need some work, let me know. I have clocks coming in every day that could use some good repair work."

"Oh," Monroe blinked at the card. "Uh, thanks. That would be great, actually."

The man smiled happily, blinking owlishly behind his glasses. "No trouble at all! Just let me know!"

 

"That's it?" Nick interrupted. "You fixed a guy's watch and he gave you a job?"

Monroe shrugged with one shoulder and took a swig of his beer. "You asked. That's how it happened. I just happen to be very good with mechanical gadgets and stuff. I started doing minor things, taught myself the more intricate stuff, and then built up a reputation."

"That's--" Nick laughed. "You're the only guy I know who can have seven jobs in one week and somehow the one you didn't interview for works."

"Not all of us had a life plan," Monroe said crossly. He carefully omitted the fact that originally, yes, he did have a life plan; it just involved killing, running, and finally being killed. It wasn't really a great plan to start with.

Nick was smiling at him softly. "You know, you're kind of adorable when you're working on your clocks."

"Adorable? You did not just say that," Monroe growled. "That's it, I'm cutting you off."

Nick danced away, clutching the bottle in his hand, eyes lit up with mischief. "Oh, yeah. Definitely adorable. Your little old man glasses--"

Monroe yelped. "Little old man glasses?"

"And that way you squint when you're concentrating on something," Nick continued blithely on, seemingly unaware of the hole he was digging himself into. "And the way you--"

Monroe leapt at him, pinning him to the couch and unerringly finding that spot on his ribs that sent Nick into reams of laughter.

"Give up?" he asked, pulling back, panting.

Nick smiled up at him and pulled him down with two arms tossed carelessly around his neck. "Never."


End file.
